


Take My Hand

by Ellimac



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-23
Updated: 2014-08-23
Packaged: 2018-02-14 08:30:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2184861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ellimac/pseuds/Ellimac
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the Master was being pulled into the Eye of Harmony, the Doctor said “Take my hand” instead of “Give me your hand.” Turns out the phrasing makes all the difference.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Take My Hand

The Master is dying. It’s hardly the first time, of course. The Doctor thinks that if he keeps going like this, he’ll keep holding on like he always does. He might end up like he did the last time his body was falling apart, a walking corpse barely held together by sheer willpower. He might degenerate into the gooey form he’d been in when he possessed the body. The Doctor doesn’t know, but neither option is particularly desirable, so he has the Master laid out in the medical bay of his TARDIS, and he’s doing his best to halt the decay. Once he’s done that, he can figure out a way to reverse it. Nanogenes might be his best bet, but he doesn’t have any handy at the moment, and he’d have to be careful about their application, anyway, to ensure that they didn’t get carried away with the “human” bit and not understand that the Time Lord mind is _supposed_ to be there.

Well. “Supposed to be there” in a very loose sense. But the Doctor doesn’t really want to have to explain what was going on to the former occupant of this body, or to a humanized Master. And those are only the two best possible outcomes.

It’s a miracle he’s made it this far, in fact. After he yelled for the Master to take his hand and the man had, miraculously, done so, he had collapsed on top of him, the strain of keeping himself as together as he had so far proving too much for him to stay conscious. The Doctor dragged him to the medical bay and stripped him. The damn robes, ridiculous as they were, proved easy to remove, and the Doctor quickly got to look at the damage underneath.

He also strapped the Master to the bed. Just in case.

He has done all he can, for now. He has cleaned up the worst of the damage, which involved cutting away more than a little dead flesh. He is afraid to administer general anesthetic, but he has numbed a good portion of the Master’s body. He worked up a medicine that was difficult to get the Master to take, unconscious as he is, but he managed it, and it appears to have stopped or at least greatly slowed the damage. He has bandaged the very worst of the damaged areas.

Now all there is to do is wait for the Master to wake up. In the meantime, he looks through textbook after textbook to find an antidote, a cure, _something_ to get the Master out of his current predicament.

The Master wakes up with a groan that is quickly silenced. The Doctor looks up to see the Master glaring at him with malice and a little bit of confusion.

“Ah,” the Doctor says. “Hello.”

“What have you done to me?” the Master growls.

“Well, stopped you rotting, I _think_. Ooh, you’re probably still numb. Can’t move your arms, right?” He glances at the shackles keeping the Master to the bed. The Master’s hands are still and limp in them. “Sorry. It was necessary so you wouldn’t be in too much pain. We both remember the _last_ time you tried rotting and being alive at the same time. Not a pleasant experience for anyone involved, least of all you. I thought I might help, this time. Don’t worry,” he adds. “The paralysis isn’t permanent. And nor, I hope, is the rotting.”

The Master stares at him. His eyes, the Doctor notes, are much more snakelike than usual. He wonders if that will carry over to other traits, as the cheetah virus did. Perhaps this is only an over-exaggerated shedding of skin.

“I’m going to destroy you,” the Master finally says.

“Not likely,” the Doctor informs him. “Considering you currently can’t move even if you try and even if you _could_ move, I don’t think you’d have near enough strength to break through the shackles. I suppose you might break your wrists on them, in your current condition, and come after me without hands, but that wouldn’t be very effective, would it? No, I think it’s best if you stay there and we don’t get to any destroying of anyone until you’re better.”

Better, he says. He’s making his best enemy _better_ simply because he took his hand…

“And there’s another thing,” he says. “I asked you to take my hand and you did. I really thought you’d be too stubborn to _do_ it. If anyone would choose falling into the eye of harmony over taking my hand, it would be you. So why did you do it?”

The Master just stares. His eyes don’t blink. Another snakelike trait, or just something the Master does? His eyelids haven’t fallen off, that’s the only thing the Doctor knows for certain.

“Come on, please?” the Doctor says after a moment too long of this. “It’s only a question.”

“I don’t have to answer to you,” the Master hisses.

“Well, no,” the Doctor admits, “you don’t, but don’t you think it would make this a much more pleasant experience for both of us if you did?”

The Master faces away. The Doctor watches him. He doesn’t expect an answer, but he can hope.

“Where are my clothes?” the Master finally asks, with as much dignity as he can muster when strapped to a bed and paralyzed.

“Oh,” the Doctor says. His eyes travel down the Master’s body. “I took them.” He had had to take _all_ of them, because he couldn’t very well check for damage all over when part of him was still covered up, but now that he is conscious, it seems a bit less than dignified. He stands up. “I’ll get you some pants, then, shall I?”

The Master turns to stare at the ceiling. The Doctor goes to find him some pants.

“How are you feeling?” he asks when he comes back.

The Master doesn’t dignify that with a response. It is fairly obvious that he’s not in good shape, admittedly. Human, American – not a bad thing _inherently_ , the Doctor thinks, but not something the Master will be pleased with – and falling apart, although the Doctor caught it in time to stop him looking like a walking rot-monster this time. But the Doctor isn’t about to give up. They may be enemies, but that doesn’t mean they can’t have some civil conversation. Besides, the Doctor has to put the Master’s pants on for him, and it’s much more awkward to do so in silence.

“I mean, are you in any pain? I know you were last time, but this is a bit different. Oh, and you’re numb all over, so if there _is_ any pain you won’t be feeling it right now, unless it’s in your head. How’s your head? Is it all right?” He reaches up to put his hand on the Master’s forehead. He probably should have washed all the gel out while he was still unconscious, he thinks.

The Master jerks his head aside, and the Doctor’s hand ends up on his temple, instead. “My head is fine,” the Master snaps. “Get off me.”

The Doctor takes his hand away. “So no pain, then?”

The Master doesn’t answer for a long time.

“No,” he finally mutters. “No pain.”

“Good,” the Doctor says, satisfied. “Let me know when you can feel your… er, everything again.”

They lapse into an uncomfortable silence. The Master’s gaze goes to the ceiling. The Doctor hovers over him for a few seconds, but there is nothing to be done, so he returns to the corner of the room. He should take them somewhere, maybe somewhere he can get proper care for the Master, but he doesn’t want to leave the room, in case the Master is bluffing and _can_ move, or in case something happens while he’s gone.

There is another worry, too. The Master was quite mad, at the end. The human head isn’t enough to support a Time Lord mind. He thinks he’s stopped further degradation, but it would be better to make _sure_ , and even better to repair it.

He gets up to go to the console room. The Master looks sharply at him. “Where are you going?”

“I’m going to get you some proper medical attention,” the Doctor says. “You’re not well. I know you say your head doesn’t hurt, but I know there’s damage to the brain, just because you’re there. There are a few solutions, but I’ve only got temporary ones on hand.”

“Where are you taking me?”

“I haven’t decided. How about fifty-first century Midikin? They don’t ask many questions.”

There is a long pause. The Doctor waits for a reply, as the Master has not stopped staring at him and seems to be thinking very hard.

“Not to Skaro?” he finally says. “Or the Time Lords?”

The Doctor stares. “Why would I take you _there_? The Daleks would kill us both on sight, and while I’m sure the Time Lords could provide you with a nice, new, functioning body, do you really think they _would_?”

There is another long silence. The Doctor steps closer so the Master won’t strain his neck, staring at him like that.

“You really mean it, don’t you?” the Master says. “You’re going to get me medical attention?”

“What else would I do?” the Doctor says. “You need it badly. Of course, it’s probably a very poor decision on my part, and you probably don’t _deserve_ it, but I can’t very well leave you to rot, can I?”

The Master doesn’t answer, and this time he doesn’t seem like he has any intention to. The Doctor goes to the console room to set their destination.

—

“Look, I don’t know how many times I have to say it, but he needs medical attention,” the Doctor says, for about the fifth time, trying not to sound too exasperated. The curious nurse looks from him to her clipboard to the Master, who is still shackled to the bed. He hasn’t even tried to escape, though the anesthetic has worn off. Instead, he is busy glaring up at the Doctor and the nurse and not saying a word.

“Why is he tied down?” the nurse asks.

“He… look, can’t you just take him in and heal him?”

“What’s the matter with him?”

The Doctor sighs. “He’s falling apart. Rotting. His brain, too, I think.”

The nurse makes a note on her clipboard. “Do you know why?”

“Because his mind’s too much for his body.”

She glances sharply at him. “That’s not going to be an easy fix, you know.”

“But you can do it, can’t you?”

“Presumably. A few questions, first.” She takes the bed and starts wheeling it inside. She jerks her head for the Doctor to follow, but he already is.

“I thought you lot didn’t _ask_ questions,” he says.

“These are necessary. Can he speak?”

The Doctor glances down at the Master, whose gaze is full of stubborn malice. “He _can_ ,” the Doctor says, “but he’s unlikely to.”

“Do you want him to be able to speak?”

“Yes! Yes, of course I do, why wouldn’t I want that?”

“Do you want him to retain the same basic form?”

“I’d like you to keep him in this body if at all possible.”

“Exact same body?”

“Exact same body.”

“There are going to have to be some physical changes if the body can’t support the mind. We can make them as unnoticeable as possible.”

The Master glares up at the Doctor.

“What?” the Doctor says. “If you want your say in this, you’re going to have to actually _say_ something.” He waits, but the Master only continues to glare. “Well? What do _you_ want?”

The Master finally opens his mouth. “I don’t want to talk,” he mutters. And then the Doctor gets it. It’s the accent.

He doesn’t stop laughing all the way into the building.

—

The Doctor oversees and approves everything they do to the Master. He tries to get the Master’s approval, too, but the Master hasn’t given any indication that he can even hear him since the Doctor laughed at him.

“Listen,” the Doctor says, as they are waiting for the results of the next test, the Master still shackled to the bed because the Doctor thought it was probably advisable, and the Master didn’t object, “you might not like it, but I do. The accent, I mean. It sounds good on you.”

The Master turns his head and stares at him, incredulous. “You _like_ it?” he says. “You like this stupid, hideous voice? Next thing you’ll tell me is you like the body, too.”

“Well, I did ask them to keep it the same,” the Doctor says mildly, resisting the urge to throw his hands in the air in triumph that he got the Master to speak again.

The Master stares. “You _do_ like it. What happened to you when you regenerated? Brain damage?”

“If I had to guess, preference imprinting,” the Doctor says. “I spent quite a lot of time around Americans and quite a lot of time around you, directly before and after. Count yourself lucky I found clothes and didn’t imprint on the sheet.”

The Master blinks. “Sheet?”

“Oh, yes. I was in the morgue. Slow regeneration, you see. They’d put me in a shroud, and I wandered around in that for a while before I found some clothes.” He spreads his arms. “And here I am. It’s quite lucky the hospital had such a well-stocked locker room, really.”

“You found that in a hospital locker room?”

“I did.”

The Master doesn’t have time to reply before the nurse comes back in, with good news. The last tests reveal that the Master is, on the whole, in good shape. They’ve stopped the rotting, permanently, they hope, and if all else fails they have a case of nanogenes for the Doctor to take along with him when he goes, already set to the Master’s current state, so there should be no problems.

“Thank you,” the Doctor says, beaming. “Thank you _so_ much. Really. I appreciate it more than you know. He does, too. Oh, speaking of him, I think it’s about time we undo the handcuffs, don’t you?” He produces the key and bends down by the Master’s side to do just that. The Master watches him incredulously, but doesn’t say a word. He probably doesn’t want the nurse to hear his accent.

The Doctor looks up when he moves around to get the other cuff while the Master lifts his free arm and flexes his fingers. “So we’re free to go, then?” he says.

“Free to go,” the nurse confirms.

“Excellent.” The Doctor straightens up. “You can keep the bed. I’ll help you walk, don’t worry.”

The Master sits up, then stands up, then stumbles. The Doctor catches him and ignores the glare. “We’ll be off!” he says cheerfully. And, slowly as the Master tries not to stumble over his own feet or anything else, they go.

—

As soon as they get to the TARDIS, the Master pins him to a wall with his arm against his chest and the other hand on the wall above his head.

“Why? Why did you do it? Help me get better? I never wanted your help.”

“Well,” the Doctor says, “then you probably shouldn’t have accepted my hand. But you did.”

“But _why_?”

“Well, I don’t know why _you_ did—”

The Master growls.

“But,” the Doctor says hurriedly, “I did it because I said I would. To myself. Or rather, because I couldn’t _not_ , because you were in my TARDIS and you were rotting and now you’re in my TARDIS and you’re pinning me to a wall.” He reaches up to put his hands on the Master’s arm, but when they get there they don’t push him away. “Er,” he adds on.

The Master can’t figure him out. He took his best enemy from the edge of death, healed him, let him go, took him back to the TARDIS. And now that he’s in a situation he could surely get out of if he actually tried, he’s _not_ trying. He’s not pushing the Master away. He’s not making any attempt to get away from him. Nor, annoyingly, is he acting at all surprised. Nothing about it makes sense.

“Um,” the Doctor says.

He’s pretty, the Master notices. He’s been pretty before, but that was the bitchy one, the one that let him burn, although in fairness he _had_ let him fall. This time he’s just… pretty. He’s got an honest face and curls that frame it, and they look soft, they look like something he could run his fingers through. His eyes are blue, reminiscent of the sky on some planets, including the rubbish one he always goes back to, Earth.

One of his hands is on the Master’s elbow. The other is on his shoulder. It’s like a trap, only it’s not, because all he’s doing is moving his fingers in a way that makes the Master all too aware that he’s only wearing a thin t-shirt and he can feel the Doctor’s double heartbeat against his arm.

“I think,” the Doctor begins.

The Master kisses him.

“That’s exactly what I think,” the Doctor says breathlessly, when it ends several seconds later. “Er – I have a bedroom. Quite a large bed, too, if you—”

The Master kisses him again to shut him up, and picks him up to carry him there.

—

The Doctor looks even better naked. The Master knows this because he has spent every coherent second taking him in, in detail. He has nice shoulders and a nice back and beautiful legs and a _really_ nice butt. His neck and collarbone and chest are all utterly breathtaking. His face, beautiful as it is, is even better when it’s pulled out of shape by orgasm.

His hair is exactly as soft as it looks. The Master has spent the last half-hour running his fingers through it, attempting to comb the tangles out, and finally just burying his face in it. The Doctor has fallen asleep. The Master’s arms are around his chest, and he’s got a possessive leg over his hip. He doesn’t intend to move at least until the Doctor wakes up. Or forever. Whichever comes last.


End file.
